


Conflagration

by NyxEtoile



Series: Complicated [6]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-27 05:08:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyxEtoile/pseuds/NyxEtoile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Watson have finally reached an equilibrium; they know where they stand with each other. Unfortunately, an old enemy is about to do everything in her power to change that.</p><p>-or-</p><p>Nyx swore when she started this series she wouldn't do a Moriarty story but her muse had other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I gave myself a personal deadline of getting the first part of this up before the Season 2 premier. Made it with almost a week to spare! Now everyone cross your fingers my kids behave for a couple days so I can get the rest of it out as well.
> 
> And, yes, the M rating means there will be some hot-and-heavy relationship stuff coming up.

“Watson!”

Sherlock hurried down two flights of steps to the kitchen. He heard Watson talking to someone before he turned the corner. “Watson, did I hear the bell-”

He stopped in the doorway, momentarily perplexed by the tableau in front of him. Watson was feeding a small child in a booster seat, while two little girls ate sandwiches at the table. Watson winced a little when he entered. “I can explain.”

“We did not have three small children when I went upstairs for my shower.” 

She put the spoon down, much to the infant’s dismay and got up to talk to him in the doorway. “They’re Hope and Ken’s kids,” she said softly. “There was an emergency and their regular sitter couldn’t come and I was the first one who answered.”

“You agreed to watch three children in our home without consulting me? When Ms. Hudson came to stay you gave me a lecture on roommate etiquette. And she was a fully grown adult.”

“Okay, first of all, she was staying overnight for an indeterminate amount of time. And second, you don’t have to do anything. I’ll take care of them and Hope’s mom will pick them up when she’s done at work.” He huffed air out of his nose, glaring at her. “It’s four hours. You can go hide in your TV room-”

Sherlock felt something tug his hand and looked down to see the older of the girls looking up at him. “Mom says you have bees.”

“Amelia-” Watson started.

“I do have bees,” Sherlock said, disentangling the girl’s hand from his.

“Are they nice bees?”

He looked down at her. “Bees are neither nice nor cruel. They just are.”

“I got stung by a bee last month. Mom said it was ‘cause I got too close to it’s hive and it was protecting it’s babies.”

“Simplistic, but ultimately true.”

The girl - Amelia, apparently - seemed to consider that a minute. “Can I meet your bees?”

Watson gave a little start. He ignored her. “You aren’t afraid they’ll sting you?”

“Fluttershy says it’s important to face your fears.”

“I have no idea who that is.” He threw his hands up and turned away. “Very well, grab your coat and come meet the bees.” 

It was worth however long he had to spend with the girl for the look of utter incredulity on Watson’s face.

***

Watson stood on the porch and waved to the departing car before stepping back into the foyer. He was at the lock table and pointedly didn’t look at her as she came in and leaned on the opposite side. She just watched him, letting the silence stretch. She was getting better at their little games of conversational chicken. “I had no idea, when I encouraged your reconciliation with your friends, that we would be turned into a daycare,” he finally said, picking the lock he was holding with a satisfying click.

“Don’t even try. You spent almost four hours on the roof with an eight year old. The gruff, child hating facade isn’t going to fly.”

He grunted, picking up another lock and jabbing his pick in. “I will admit, the chance to encourage a budding apiarist was rather enjoyable.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And Amelia is remarkably astute and well spoken for a child.”

“You remembered her name. Consider us touched.”

He risked a look at her then and had a hard time not smiling at her mischievous expression. “It was not an entirely painful experience.” 

“I’m going to interpret that as ‘sure, we can babysit again in the future, just give me a little warning next time, hmmm?’”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise. She already thought she’d won, no reason to encourage her further. She leaned forward to peer at the locks he was going through. “We have a client meeting at four,” he said, dropping the one he’d just opened into a bucket and scooping up the next.

“Oh, a private case? We haven’t seen one of those in a while.”

“Mmm, yes. He explained how he heard of us when he called but it was such a convoluted mess of friend-of-a-coworker-of-an-aquaintance’s-cousin I tuned out. Something about his wife trying to kill him. So should be interesting, yes?”

She arched a brow and for a moment he thought he was going to get a lecture on murdering a spouse not being “interesting” even though, by definition, it was. She surprised him by saying, “How?”

He looked up. “How is she trying to murder him? I suspect that’s what he’d like us to find out.”

“No. I mean. How do you suspect your spouse is trying to murder you and instead of leaving them or going to to cops or something you track down an eccentric British detective you heard of through the grapevine?”

He dropped his lock with a satisfying _thunk_. “I suspect we’ll find that out as well.”

Watson shook her head and pushed off the table. “Well. I’m going to clean the kitchen up. Do you want a snack?”

“Tea. And jammy dodgers.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. Her back was to him again, but at this point he can hear her eyes rolling. He listened to her footsteps on the stairs down to the kitchen and smiled. Tea and cookies would almost certainly appear on the table in the next twenty minutes. She might even join him in picking some of the locks, a thank you for entertaining Amelia this afternoon. He rather enjoyed the domestic patterns they’d fallen into. The security of knowing he could be himself and she would simply roll her eyes and go about her day. The comfort in knowing her reactions without having to always be analyzing. He supposed this is how normal people reacted to loved ones. Only they never truly appreciated how rare it was.

Of course, eighteen minutes later she returned with tea and ginger snaps. But her contrariness was one of the reasons he loved her.


	2. Chapter 2

“I just don’t like him,” Joan said as they climbed the steps back up to the brownstone.

Sherlock gave his “foolish woman” sigh that often accompanied comments on her menstrual cycle. “Watson, I am the last person to besmirch the advantages of your feminine sensitivities. But I am going to need a little more then ‘woman’s intuition’ to expect the worst of paying client.” 

He held the front door for her and she stormed past him, balancing the box of files she was carrying. “God. You are the only person I know who feels the need to use twenty words to say ‘shut it.’”

“That can’t possibly be true, you go to recovery meetings.”

She groaned and dropped her file box on the floor near the leather couch. “I know intuition is not a factor in reasoned debate. It’s still the best I got. Something about Mr. Lance creeped me out.”

Sherlock set his box down with far more grace and looked at her, blowing out a breath. She could see him wanting to dismiss her again, but he seemed to check himself. “Was it something he said? I admit I do miss certain social nuance when I’m otherwise focused. I did note he spoke mostly to me and not you, but that’s common with clients. It’s my name on the shingle, so to speak.”

Joan crossed her arms and tried to pull herself to center. He was listening to her and acknowledging her concerns, vague as they were. She could meet him halfway and try to analyze emotion with logic. “He used a lot of ‘I’ statements,” she said, surprising herself. “Like they tell you to do in therapy. Talking about how things make you feel instead of projecting onto the other person.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “And you find that concerning?”

“It’s not a normal way to talk. He’s not a therapist of any sort, he’s middle management at an investment firm. And it didn’t come off as not wanting to assign motivation or blame it came off. . . narcissistic.”

Sherlock tilted his head and she could see him mulling that over. She cast herself back to the conversation they’d just had with their new client. Mr. Lance was, as she’d said, a mid level manager with two kids in school and a wife who worked part time. He’d called Sherlock because he thought his wife was trying to poison him. He admitted that the marriage had been strained the last few years and that he had a sizable life insurance policy through work. Divorce hadn’t been discussed, partially due to a pre-nup that would almost certainly mean Mrs. Lance would lose the comfortable life style she was accustomed to. Mr. Lance seemed to think she would rather be a murderer then middle class.

He’d given them his medical and financial records, some family pictures and what he knew of his wife’s schedule. It wasn’t a lot to go on, but they’d started with less before. 

They began their routine. Sherlock started pinning things up on the wall. She ordered dinner before changing into comfortable clothes and settling in her chair with files. She wasn’t sure when she had become the “filter” that information poured through. She had far more patience then Sherlock for information gathering. He would dive in once he’d found a thread, but it was often her job to go through the initial glut of files, especially when medical files were involved.  
 He brought her a bowl of pad thai and a plate of chicken satay when it came and retreated to the floor by the sofa with his own food and the financial records. She was only halfway through the meal when something odd caught her eye. “Do you have the finances for November?” she asked him.

There was a rustle of pages. “Yes. What am I looking for?”

“Medical bills. Especially the hospital.”

He flipped through a moment. “There’s a hospital charge dated the ninth of the month and a regular doctor’s visit on the twelfth.” He looked up at her. “What did you see?”

She straightened up from the slouch she’d gotten herself into. “Mr. Lance went to the doctor for stomach pains on the twelfth. Mrs. Lance was with him.” She held up the papers she’d been going through. “He must have requested these from the doctor, they have his notes. It mentions Mrs. Lance having a bruised face.” She looked back at the page, then the middle distance. “I wonder if we could get her files.”

Sherlock was spreading paperwork out in front of him. “The Lance’s visit the hospital quite often.” A pause. “Different hospitals at that.”

Joan leaned over, watching him circle transactions. “That’s a common trick of domestic abusers. Try to keep anyone from noticing.”

When he was done with his circles Sherlock looked up at her. “I’m going to call the contacts I have a local hospitals, see if anyone is willing to make a copy or two for us.” He got to his feet in one of those fluid, graceful motions she could never quite follow. “If this is what it looks like I will never doubt your intuition again.

***

It took almost two days of phone calls to various friends and connections, but they managed to get files from three different hospitals. Very illegal, but so was a lot of what they did. There was going to be a lot of repaid favors for this one, though.

They spread notes and files out on the table before pinning them up on the wall. Very quickly a pattern began to appear. Yes, Mr. Lance had been to the doctor and ER often in the last three months. The symptoms reported indicated long term chemical toxicity, including gastrointestinal issues, anemia, kidney pain and rashes. Joan could list almost a dozen poisons it could be, without specific testing or witnessing an event she had no hope of narrowing it down further. So, yes, evidence indicated that the man was being poisoned with intent to harm or kill.

What was really interesting, however, were _Mrs._ Lance’s records. She had been in an ER fourteen times in the last three years. And that was just in the three hospitals they’d managed to beg records from. That was once every two and a half months. Saying that was a more then average amount was like saying the Titanic had had some minor water intake issues. The visits were a blend of blunt force traumas and lacerations. By Sherlock’s tally (scrawled directly on the wall in chalk, God help her) that was three concussions, nine broken ribs, a broken foot, a fractured arm and sixty two stitches.

Joan paced in front of the wall a moment. Sherlock was standing very still, eyes flickering from one page to another, absorbing all the little details. Joan stopped next to him. “So. Is Mrs. Lance the single klutziest person on the planet?”

“Impossible to prove the hypothesis,” he muttered. “Also, extremely unlikely.”

“He hits her,” Joan said. Once of them needed to say it out loud.

Sherlock sighed. “And she poisons him. Quite the modern marriage, isn’t it?”

She leaned back on the lock table, braced on her elbows. “What are we going to do?”

He rubbed both hands over his face. “We have only circumstantial evidence at best for either crime. It will be exceedingly hard to obtain more without tipping off one or both of the Lances. I have a great temptation to lock them in a room together with my tool box and let them hash it out.”

“Sherlock.”

He didn’t look at her. “It was mostly facetious.” He rubbed his mouth, chin tipped up, staring at the papers. “We could give back the money and wash our hands of them.”

 Joan stared at him. “What?”

“I make an effort to only take cases in good faith. This one doesn’t qualify.”

“But. . . we’d just leave her to get beaten?”

“She is an adult. She could leave at any time- ”

“They have children -”

“She has instead chosen to try to murder her husband. While I obviously sympathize with a victim of domestic assault said sympathy runs out when they attempt cold blooded murder. She has options. She’s choosing the wrong one.”

“What if she’s not the one doing the poisoning? What if he’s doing it as a way to set her up?”

He tipped his head back, looking at her through his lashes. “To what end?”

That was an excellent question. She cast about for a plausible reason. “Invalidate the pre-nup?”

“Shockingly, there is no attempted murder clause in the document. Also, if I was going to feign poisoning I would make it both more obvious and less dangerous. The man is anemic and has lost almost fifteen pounds. He is being poisoned by something.”

Joan ran her hands through her hair. “We could go to Mrs. Lance, try to help her.”

“And tip her off that her husband is aware of the poisoning, likely causing her to increase her efforts?”

“Bring it to Gregson?”

“You mean our illegally gained circumstantial evidence? We’d need to tell him about the poison, too. Hardly fair to pick sides in the hidden crimes game.” She groaned and pushed away from the table. He watched her as she stalked away from him, with his most irritatingly thoughtful expression. “I told you long ago we couldn’t factor in liking the answer to the puzzles. I thought you understood that.”

“I did. I do. I just. . . I know it’s wrong, okay? Poisoning someone is way into the ‘wrong’ category.”

“I sense a but coming.”

She ran her hands through her hair again, glared at him, then decided she couldn’t look at him. “But she lives in a house with a man who breaks her ribs and gives her concussions. And when I think about that I think she’s damned restrained in just slowly poisoning him to death.”

He was silent long enough for her to risk a glance. He was wearing his deduction expression. The one that meant he was mentally putting pieces together and was at the threshold of an epiphany. She opened her mouth to say something to distract him but before she could make a sound she saw his eyes light up as he tipped over the threshold. Then his whole face darkened and his hands clenched. “Who?” he said, voice thick. She could almost hear him mentally packing his tool box.

“Sherlock.” She held her hands up, palms out in appeasement, and took a step towards him. “Honey. Not me. Not me, okay? Ratchet it down.”

He relaxed, then gave her a perplexed look, like he’d just registered the “honey.” Neither of them were ones for endearments. She should probably analyze how that had slipped out, but right now she was more interested in talking him down. “I had a friend,” she said. “We met in college, she started out pre-med but switched to molecular biology when she realized she couldn’t handle body parts. When I was in med school she was in grad school an hour away and started seeing this guy. It started out small, she wore a lot of long sleeved shirts, claimed to suddenly be a klutz. After the third time I saw her with a black eye I started asking some of her other friends what was going on and we pieced it together. Tried to talk to her but she wouldn’t hear it.” 

Joan blew out a breath, composing herself. Sherlock stepped a little closer to her. “She showed up at my place one night. She was a mess, face bruised, two broken fingers, broken rib. He’d thrown her down a flight of steps. I took her in and bandaged her up and my roommate and I tried to talk her into calling the cops. She wouldn’t. Until her boyfriend started hammering on the door, screaming for her to come out.” Sherlock’s arm lifted and, after a hesitation, he touched her shoulder. Joan hugged herself. “We deadbolted the door, pushed an armoire over it and my roommate called 911 while I stood between the door and the couch with a baseball bat. And my friend, who I’d always thought of as strong and brilliant and amazing, she was curled up in a ball on the couch crying like a little kid.”

She looked up at him, saw the anger was gone. His face was soft and concerned now. “The cops came, took him away, got everyone’s statements. She spent the night, then left. I didn’t hear from her much after that. I think she was embarrassed. I heard she broke up with him, at any rate.” She sighed and leaned into him a little, feeling tired. “I know I can’t get personal with cases. And I know Mrs. Lance is not my old friend. But I can’t turn it off. I’m sorry.”

The hand on her shoulder slid to tug her into a hug. “Don’t apologize. You care about people, it’s what made you a good doctor and a good companion. It’s what makes you a good detective. You see the human element far better then I do.” He huffed out a sigh, resting his chin on the top of her head. “I’ll take what we know to Gregson in the morning. Perhaps it will be enough for him to go talk to the Lance’s, scare them straight, so to speak.”

Joan nodded. “Thank you, Sherlock.”


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock spent the morning at the precinct, handing over everything he knew about the Lances to Captain Gregson. He wad very grateful the other man didn’t question how he’d gotten most of the information. Gregson wasn’t sure how much he could do with it, but he promised to follow up on it. It was the best Sherlock could hope for, given the awkward circumstances.

He took his time getting home, walking a bit before making his way to the tube station. He had expected that taking on a partner would complicate matters. He had never expected to get this attached to Watson. His life before her had been a exercise in detachment, learned and practiced since a very young age. Irene had been a spectacular deviation from the norm. When it had ended so poorly it had only seemed a confirmation that his usual method was the correct one.

Watson had smashed through half his walls and simply ignored the rest. He had resented it at first, doing everything in his power to shove her away. He still winced on occasion, thinking of the things he’d said to her. The initial resentment had faded quickly, even if he hadn’t been able to admit it. Had she been any less clever, less tenacious they would barely have lasted their required six weeks. 

She had far surpassed anything he had hoped to find in life. So, while this was not how he would have handled this case were he alone, he would trade the very rare emotional response for all the rest. He’d chalk this up as a lesson in where her limits were. Triggers were impossible to avoid, he knew that better then anyone, but there were ways to soften the blow.

He was in a relatively sanguine mood when he reached home. The afternoon spread out in front of him, the first hints of spring in the air. He could spend time with the bees. Perhaps writing up a new reading list for Watson.

He heard Watson move as he entered the brownstone. She was waiting for him in the entryway before he’d gotten through the second door. She was holding a blue file folder as thick as his thumb in her right hand. Her left hand was twitching against her leg. Sherlock froze, keys still in his hand, jacket half shrugged off. “Watson?”

She shook the file a little. “What is this?”

He glanced at it, tried to read the label, but couldn’t make it out. “I have no idea. A file of some kind.”

“It’s _my_ file,” she said, voice gone deep in anger. He was one of the only women he knew whose voice got deeper in rage instead of shrill. 

“What on earth do you mean your file?” He finished taking his coat off and tossed it on a hook. “Why do you look ready to tear me to shreds?”

“It’s the file from the investigation into my patient’s death. The one the disciplinary committee put together. It was in with the files from the Lances. Did you - I swear, Sherlock, if you figured out how to get this and were going to go digging into my case-”

“I would _never_ do that,” he said, letting his offense show in his voice. “Certainly not without consulting you. How can you think I would?”

“I don’t know, because you’re an asshole? Because it bothers you that I haven’t told you the whole story? Because everything is a puzzle with you? Seriously, I can think of a half dozen excuses but that doesn’t make it okay. This is not okay.” 

The file was quivering as she held it. He wasn’t even sure if she knew what she was accusing him of anymore. “Watson,” he said quietly, but she didn’t react. He was reminded of the night before, when he’d been near blind with rage as he’d pictured a man she trusted striking her. He thought of what she’d said to reach him. She’d called him “honey.” It wasn’t a name he’d ever expected to hear. He’d never been one for pet names or endearments, found them cloying. And he certainly wouldn’t want her to use it as a replacement for his perfectly serviceable name. Still, it was a level of intimacy he could come to enjoy. Honey wasn’t exactly his style though. “Watson, love. I would _never_.”

She blinked, probably as flummoxed as he had been the night before. It had the desired effect, though. She looked at the file she held and slowly lowered her arm. Her shoulders slumped and for a moment he was afraid she was about to cry. He’d have preferred the rage back, all things considered. Instead, she took a shuffling step back and sank onto the red sofa, covered her eyes with her hand.

He went to her hesitantly, crouching next to her. “Watson?”

She took a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.” Her voice was almost normal.

He shifted to sit on the floor in front of the couch. “You found a highly sensitive file among others I had requisitioned. It was a reasonable deduction.”

She was quiet a moment. “If you’d gotten it you wouldn’t have left if lying around for me to find.” She lowered her hand and looked at him. “You’re an asshole, but you’re a sneaky asshole.”

He smiled. “There you are.” He cupped the back of her calf and gave it a gentle squeeze. Her fingers speared into his hair immediately, like she’d been waiting for his permission to touch. “I understand there are certain things that can weaken one’s rational thinking. I don’t blame you.” What did worry him was that this was the second time in as many days they’d stumbled across one.

He sensed Watson was thinking along they same lines. She’d put the file down on the floor and was staring at it. She looked back at the front room where the file boxes were stacked. “You know how you said you’d give my woman’s intuition a little more credence?”

“Yes.”

“Right now it’s telling me something weird is going on.”

His first instinct was to deny it, to at least try for comfort. But she was right. “I can think of no way for your particular file to accidentally find it’s way to us.”

“It wouldn’t even have been housed with the medical files. No way for it to be grabbed accidentally.” She stroked her fingers through his hair, over and over, like she was petting a cat. He should probably be put out by that, but he rather enjoyed the sensation. “Why would someone want to give us that file?”

He had been trying to figure that out since she’d started waving it at him. “I can think of a number of reasons. Impossible to narrow it down without more input.” He tilted his head back to look at her face, red eyed but calm. “I imagine you can do the same.”

She nodded, then dipped her head down quickly to kiss him. “I really am sorry I accused you.”

He tucked a bit of her hair behind her ear. “You came to your senses promptly. I can forgive temporary insanity.” He paused a beat. “Love.”

She smiled widely. “Thanks, honey.”

The second time was almost palatable.

***

The next afternoon had them splitting up to return or destroy the medical files. Sherlock didn’t know what Watson had done with her file. HIs assumption was it had made it’s way back into whatever box she’d found it in. He hadn’t seen any mysterious ashes in the fireplace and she wasn’t likely to have kept it as a memento. None of his business, in any case. She’d made it quite clear she didn’t want him looking at it.

He made his stops, then took a detour to the Lance residence to inform his client he was refusing the case. He didn’t relish the conversation. He actually was aware when conversations were awkward, contrary to appearances. He just generally didn’t care.

He rang the bell at the Lance’s townhouse. There was no immediate answer so he cocked his head to the door, listening for any signs of life in the home. Nothing. Sherlock scanned the street and spotted Mr. Lance’s black Audi halfway down the block. The man was almost certainly home, he didn’t seem the type to walk down to the corner market on a whim. He knocked this time and the door rattled on it’s latch. He tried the knob and it opened easily. A vague sense of foreboding draped over him like a cloak. “Mr. Lance?” he called, pushing the door open. He was suddenly reminded of the time Watson had walked into a mysteriously open front door. He made a mental vow not to answer any cries for help.

The door swung open completely and he was greeted with the sight of Mrs. Lance, bloody and battered, laying at the foot of the stairs. Sherlock took two quick steps inside and crouched beside her. Her neck was bent at an unfortunate angle and her eyes gazed sightlessly in the direction of the living room. He searched for her pulse anyway, found none, and stood. 

His phone was in his hand without conscious thought. Before he started dialing, though, he wanted a look at the scene without any interference. He walked slowly up the stairs, scanning for any signs of tampering, noting points of impact. Upstairs he saw signs of an obvious struggle. He followed a blood trail to the spare bedroom, that Mr. Lance used as an office. There he found Mr. Lance himself, sprawled out on the floor. HIs face was a grotesque shade of purple, blood tinged foam spewing from his mouth. Sherlock didn’t bother to feel for a pulse this time. His former client had, apparently, succumbed to whatever toxin had been slowly poisoning him these last few months. Mere minutes after killing his wife with a push down the stairs.

How convenient.

Sherlock backed out of the room and rushed back down the hall and down the stairs, careful not to touch or disturb anything. Alarm bells were going off in his head, but he was attempting not to jump to conclusions. He didn’t have all the evidence. He didn’t have _any_ evidence. There was no deductions to make so he-

His phone buzzed in his hand, making him jump. He blew out a breath and answered it. “Captain Gregson, I was just about to call-”

“Holmes, where are you?”

Sherlock was taken aback at the abrupt interruption. “Brooklyn Heights. You remember that couple I told you about? They’re both dead and I strongly suspect-”

“Holmes, shut up and listen to me for once.” Sherlock snapped his mouth closed and complied. Gregson continued. “There was a riot at Bedford Correctional this morning. No one knows how it started yet. Bunch of inmates are in the infirmary, couple guards are getting stitches. No fatalities. But when everyone got back in their cells they realized someone was missing.”

Sherlock had frozen on the Lance’s front walk, throat tight. “Moriarty,” he managed to rasp out.

“We get an APB out for her, TSA is watching the airports and train stations. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I feel like she might stop by to visit you?”

“That is entirely possible. Watson-”

“I just talked to her, she’d on her way back to your place. I can send someone to get you.”

“No. I’ll manage it myself. I can be home before you could get someone here.” He paused. “Thank you for the warning. Please contact me when you know more.”

“Right. And, uh, text me the address for that double murder, huh?”

***

The sky was dark when he reached the brown stone. He hated this time of year, before the equinox, when it was dark so early in the evening. “Watson?” he called out as he entered the back door. “I know you spoke with the Captain. We need to look through recent news reports see if there’s anything she might-” He stopped as he stepped into the kitchen. Watson was sitting at the table, right hand in her lap, left pressed to the smooth wooden surface. A man sat in the chair across from her, a gun pointed at her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behind the scenes author commentary: I went through a surprising amount of mental debate regarding whether Sherlock would use "love" as an endearment or "dear" as a canon joke. I decided on "love" because when I heard "dear" in Sherlock's voice it sounded kind of snarky, whereas "love" sounded gentle. Also, I think it's as close as he can get to saying "I love you" to her. 
> 
> I apologize for the cliffhanger. Chapter 4 will be up a little faster then this one.


	4. Chapter 4

Joan Watson had had a lot of bad days in her life. Most of them before she even met Sherlock. There was losing he patient, of course. Plus the investigation that came after, the interrogations and committees. But there was also finding out her father had cheated. The day her _ye-ye_ died. Even the day she came home to find Liam on the couch, nodding, the needle still on the coffee table. And a few days after that, realizing the drugs were always going to be more important then her and that it was over. All really bad days.

So sitting for almost an hour at gun point in her own kitchen really didn’t even crack the top ten.

It had been so surreal. She’d come home and made her way to the kitchen, picking up detritus along the way. She’d put her bag on the table and heard the faintest noise and then the brush of metal against her temple.

“Have a seat, Ms Watson.”

She’d obeyed. What choice did she have? When she’d tried to talk to him he wagged his gun at her like a finger. “Uh uh. We’ll save the chat till all the players are here.”

So she’s sat, calmly as she could, not saying a word as they waited for Sherlock. She’d even tried his self hypnosis trick, though not with the word amygdala.

No, the word she’d used had been icepick.

It had been stabbed into the chest of the practice dummy, a product of Sherlock’s late night frustration or experiment or something. She’d pulled it out, not wanting Ms. Hudson to come across it. It wasn’t even his red handled weapon ice pick but the sliver handled kitchen one she’d bought for their post New Years party. And yes, it was probably silly to make the distinction, but she still had some rules, dammit.

And so, the icepick had been in her hand when he’d put the gun to her head. And with a twist of her wrist and a tuck of her hand she’d slipped it in her sleeve as she’d sat. And there it was, pressed against her wrist, metal warming with her body heat. Her wrist started to cramp at the awkward angle she had to hold it in, but she didn’t dare move. She kept her left hand flat on the table to keep the nerves from twitching her fingers. And she sat, calm and still, waiting to see what would happen.

And the little voice in her head that she still sometimes thought of as Sherlock repeated the same word over and over in her mind.

Icepick. Icepick. Icepick.

The look on the actual Sherlock’s face was the only thing that stopped the chant. He’d looked shocked, panicked and afraid, one after the other. Then a sort of bored resignation took over his face. Like he’d known he’d walk in on such a tableau. Like it happened every week.

“Mr. Holmes,” the gunman said. “A pleasure to finally meet you. I was beginning to think I’d have to start the show without you.”

Sherlock barely glanced at him, staring only at her. She tried to keep her face a calm mask. “Are you all right?” he asked her quietly.

She glanced at her captor without moving her head. “Go on and answer,” he said, managing to sound magnanimous.

“I’m fine,” she said. “He didn’t touch me.”

Sherlock nodded, then stiffened as the gunman reached into his pocket with his free hand. All he pulled out was a phone, though. He dialed a number, listened to it a moment, then hit the speaker button and held it out in front of him.

“Hello, Sherlock,” came Moriarty’s voice from the speaker, cool and vaguely amused. “Mascot.”

Sherlock looked like he might vomit. Joan doubted the gunman had noticed, but she knew his face quite well now. She didn’t think he’d be answering, so she did. “Bitch.”

Moriarty laughed. “Charming. You’ve been busy in my absence.”

“We try.”

“You know, you really did a marvelous job ‘diagnosing’ me, as Sherlock put it. But it appears I had some insight into you, as well. You _did_ want to sleep with him.”

Joan didn’t react and didn’t take her eyes off Sherlock. She wondered if she was going to have to explain that one later. She didn’t really feel like discussing her sex life with an evil mastermind, either way. “How was prison?”

“Boring. But it did give me a great deal of time to think. To plan. That is what we’re good at, isn’t it? Thinking.”

“What do you want?” Sherlock asked, voice rough.

“Quiet, Sherlock,” Moriarty replied, sounding like a scolding teacher. “Women are talking.” He actually looked offended. Joan took that as a good sign. “Watson, dear,” Moriarty continued. “Can you give me one reason why I shouldn’t have my man kill you right now?”

Joan took a long deep breath and squeezed her fingers on the icepick, reminding herself she still had it and dammit, she was going to stab something before the night was up. “If you wanted to kill me you wouldn’t have waited until Sherlock got here. You’d have had ‘your man’ take me. Maybe leave a puddle of blood in the house. That way he could never be sure I was dead, not really. You could have me locked away somewhere, doing to me what you claimed happened to Irene.” She held Sherlock’s gaze as she spoke, hating herself for what she was saying. “He’d always wonder. It would be far more distracting then simply killing me. All that would get you is vengeance.”

Moriarty laughed almost musically, the sound crackling a little on the phone speaker. “You are _very_ good, my dear. Really. No wonder he took such a shine to you. And you’re right, I hope not to kill you. I simply wanted to talk. But not like this. In person. Just you and me.”

Sherlock was shaking his head even as Joan answered. “That doesn’t sound like something I’d do.”

“Oh, I do wish you’d reconsider.”

“Pretty sure I won’t.”

“Pity. Roger, be a dear, incapacitate Mr. Holmes and do whatever it is you wish to Miss Watson. Make sure he’s conscious enough to watch.” There was a click as the line went dead.

The gunman - Roger, apparently - tossed the phone onto the table and turned, lifting his hand to aim the gun at Sherlock.  
 That’s when Joan moved.

She let the icepick drop out of her sleeve and into her hand, pushing off the table with her other hand. She knocked into Roger, sending his shot wide, then she buried the ice pick into his throat. They hit the floor together and the gun fell from his hand, skittering across the linoleum.

Sherlock’s arms came around her waist and he hauled her off the other man, turning them both away from the body. He put her on her feet, gave her what was probably supposed to be a comforting squeeze and turned back to check on their attacker.

She stood right where he’d put her while he confirmed Roger was dead. She was aware he called Gregson, though she didn’t hear a word of what he said. By the time he was guiding her to the hallway and up the stairs she became aware she was probably in shock. She did a quick inventory to make sure she wasn’t actually injured, then started to focus on her breathing. By the time Sherlock sat her on the sofa by the stairs and wrapped her red shawl around her shoulders she was feeling better. She looked at him. “I’m all right,” she told him, but she tugged the shawl tighter around her shoulders.

He let out a breath. “Ah, you’re back. I was hoping you would be before the police came.”

“He’s dead.” Sherlock nodded slowly. “I killed him.”

“ _Where_ did you have that ice pick hidden?”

“My sleeve. I pulled it out of the dummy when I came home and when he pulled the gun I hid it.” She rubbed her face. “He was here when I got here. In the kitchen. I didn’t even notice-”

He stroked her hair. “It’s all right. I wasn’t aware until I walked in on the little tableau.” He sat next to her on the couch, slouching. “The question is what to do now?”

“Gregson will want to hide us somewhere.”

“Indeed.” He paused. “You should go.”

She turned to him swiftly. “What?”

“If he offers protection you should go. She appears to be. . . fixated on you and I can’t-”

She took his hand, weaving their fingers together. “I go where you go. Now more then ever.” He opened his mouth, almost certainly with another argument. “Run together, remember? You promised.”

His mouth snapped shut and he looked away, jaw clenching and unclenching. Then he gave her fingers a squeeze. “So. Stay or run?”

She blew out a breath, looking around the room. “I know it sounds stupid but I don’t want to let her chase us out of our home.”

He looked at her and gave her a faint smile. “Agreed. However, until we have a better idea of her plan I suggest we stay at each other’s side as much as feasible. At the risk of being a clingy boyfriend-”

“Never,” she assured him solemnly.

“I think we’d both fare better if we have someone at our back.”

“I agree,” Joan said, resting her head on his shoulder. He stayed stiff under her touch, but didn’t move. Sometimes she still touched him more then he was comfortable with. Usually when she sensed him getting to that line she backed off, waiting for him to initiate contact again. Right now, however, she needed to feel the solid heat of him.

The lights of Gregson’s car shone through the front windows and she lifted her head, flexing her hand open so he could release her if he wanted. He hesitated a moment before doing so, which meant more to her then she could express. “Ready to face them?” he asked her, voice rough.

She nodded. “Sooner’s better then later.”

Gregson did offer to put them in protective custody and was visibly peeved when they refused. He and Bell took their statements. Joan couldn’t tell if they were more impressed or concerned at her action girl moment. They took the body out the back door so she didn’t have to see it and she had the rather ridiculous realization that she’d have to buy a new ice pick if they ever had another party.

The police and CSIs left just before midnight. Joan no longer felt shocky, but she was wrung out and exhausted. Sherlock had to herd her to the bathroom for a shower. From there she was able to get herself in bed. She could hear him downstairs, his movements quiet and too vague for her to determine what he was doing.

She curled on her side, staring at the moonlight filtering through the curtains. She thought sleep would elude her, despite how tired she was, but soon her lids were too heavy to keep open and she drifted off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist giving Joan some Action Girl moments in this story, especially after seeing her awesome baton skills in the season premier.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've been a little slower then usual on this one. Lots of RL stuff slowing me down. I promise I won't disappear with this unfinished. Orphan fics are a big pet peeve of mine so I try never to start what I can't finish.
> 
> This chapter almost got this story titled "Consummation."
> 
> You have been warned. :)

_She didn’t move fast enough. How could she? Watson was strong and fit but no one could outrun a bullet. Sherlock felt the lead tear through his abdomen, the pain a hundred times more intense then the shot to the shoulder he’d taken almost a year ago. He dropped to his knees, watching Watson try to take down the gunman. He tossed her off easily. There was no icepick this time. Of course there wasn’t an icepick, why would she have one? That had been a wishful fantasy._

“Sherlock.”

_The gun was now pointing at Watson. She was rolling to her feet but a backhand knocked her back down. Sherlock tried to get to her, but it was as if he was mired in mud. In quicksand. Watson turned her head to look at him. Her mouth moved as if to say his name, but her voice was distorted._

“Sherlock!”

_The gunman had the gun sighted directly at her head. Sherlock lurched forward. He called out to her, the sound lost in the gunshot._

_”Sherlock!”_

He jerked awake, breath caught in his throat. Watson was standing at the end of his bed, hand hovering above his foot. She had learned the hard way not to get too close to him when he was caught in the throes of a nightmare. Her eyes were wide, expression stark. He could only imagine what he’d been doing or saying in his sleep.

“Sherlock?” she said again quietly. 

Her hand still hovered above him, hesitant to touch. He felt an odd pang at that. Watson was very nurturing. A healer. Her instinct, always, was to touch. He was not a man used to casual touching. His parents had not been demonstrative, he had gone to a strict boarding school and rejected romantic entanglements as a general rule. Touch was overwhelming to him at times. She was the first person he’d ever known to understand that. Even Irene, for all her observational skills, had touched him far more then he was comfortable with. But Watson always knew. She held her own instincts in check in an effort to keep him comfortable. It was one of a dozen ways she did so, putting him first. It was her nature to give and it was his nature to take. Fortunately, it was also in his nature to be aware of the imbalance and offset it when possible.

It was on his lips to tell her he was all right, thank you for waking me, just a dream. Instead he held his arm out to her. She went to him, hesitantly, and sat on the bed with him. He wrapped the arm around her, crushing her to his chest. Her arms slid around him and she gave him her weight as he sagged against the headboard. “You were shot,” he whispered into her hair. “I was helpless and he shot you as I watched.”

“I’m here,” she replied, voice muffled against his shoulder. 

He appreciated that she avoided all the cliches. _It was just a dream. It’ll be all right._ “I couldn’t help you,” he said, voice harsh. “I promised you wouldn’t be hurt and-”

“Hey.” She sat up and cupped his face, pressing her forehead to his. “I’m _here_ ,” she repeated. “Breathing. Heart beating. Stop.” She took his hand and pressed it to her skin, above the lace of her camisole, right above her heartbeat. She watched him, eyes locked on his. He counted the pulses, soaked in the rhythm of them. Something must have changed in his expression because she seemed to relax. “Okay?”

In reply he slid his hand up, over her shoulder, along the line of her throat, and into her hair. He cupped the back of her head and kissed her. His mouth was urgent, his grip rough. His other arm - still wrapped around her - tightened, holding her to him.

He felt her falter. Could almost hear her rationalizing his response. He was afraid she would pull away. He’d feared the same the first time he’d kissed her properly. And, just like then, she didn’t. She opened her mouth and kissed him back. With the same urgency, the same need.

He turned them, dragging her across him and onto her back on the bed. He let his hands roam her, rubbing the cotton of her shirt against her skin, tugging it up until he could touch the skin itself. He stroked his fingertips along her side, across her stomach. They thumped over the indents of her ribs. They found the slick wrongness of her scar. He traced the edges of it, explored it with touch as best he could. Then he lifted his head to look down at her face.

She was flushed, mouth swollen from the kiss. They stared at each other a moment, then she gave him a sexy smile that shot through him. He felt oddly breathless when she tugged his shirt up. He had to release her to take it off. Then her hands found his shoulders. He felt her fingers trace the lines of his tattoo, just as he’d surveyed her scar. He watched her explore him, unbelieving.

“You look like you expect me to slap you,” she said softly, eyes on his shoulder.

“I - We seem to have stepped on a path I’m uncertain you’re willing to take.”

Her gaze flickered to his. “Oh,” she breathed. “You’re waiting for permission.”

“Consent,” he corrected. His hand had found it’s way back to her side, curved protectively around her scar.

She tilted her head, expression affectionate and indulgent. “Did you think I peeled your shirt off for fun?” He glowered a little and she sobered. “This could change everything.”

“Anything could change everything,” he said. “Everything changes every time you touch me and I don’t flinch. Every time I kiss you. Everything I _want_ you. Everything will change whether you say yes or no. It will just be a different change.”

She had that look she got when he revealed a piece of himself. A piece she didn’t know he had hidden and so hadn’t thought to look for. She touched his jaw with light fingers and he saw her about to say something big. Big and serious and important and. . . changing. But what she said was, “Yes.”

He groaned and it came out a growl. He swooped down to kiss her, fast and hard, before sliding his hands under her top and pulling it off her. She gave a little laugh of delight, wrapping her arms around him once it was gone.

Sherlock Holmes was not a man who could turn off his brain, even during the act of love making. With most women he was only as engaged as he had to be, mind on a case, or writing his bee book or whatever else was interesting him at the moment. He didn’t want to do that now, with her. So he funneled all that extra brain power into memorization. He’d meant what he’d said to her. Things changed, all the time. Sometimes for the worse. It had taken them so long to get here, it had been so hard, he wanted to remember every moment. To be able to bring the memory up and savor it when the bad times inevitably got worse.

So he memorized her, discovered her. The soft, silken feel of her skin under his hands and mouth. He found the touches that made her gasp and moan. There was a ticklish spot just above her hipbone that made her laugh and squirm. He learned the scent of her (orange blossoms and vanilla and bergamot). He learned how she touched and explored, featherlight at first, then firm, then grasping as her skin heated and the gasps came louder and more frequent. He trailed kisses down her throat, along the ridge of her clavicle. He shaped her breasts with his hands, the small globes soft and delicate under his rough fingers. 

He kissed her there, on the rosy pink tips and smiled against her when they tightened. She must have felt it because she tapped his shoulder in retaliation for his smugness. He drew a peak into his mouth, teasing her with his tongue and judged her quiet moan to mean he was forgiven. 

He ducked his head, pressing a kiss to the scar on her ribs, nuzzling her there. It wouldn’t do to spend too much time there, get them thinking dark thoughts. Still, it deserved his notice, his care. His hands roamed lower as he pressed a kiss to the soft skin of her stomach, just above her navel. His fingers speared through the thatch of dark curls below and he lifted his head, watching her reactions. He explored her there, fingers tracing patterns through the slick folds, until her back arched and she hissed air through her teeth. He teased the spot he’d found, stretching up to kiss her as he stroked. A few minutes later he learned her kisses tasted different when she was close to the edge and that her lips were softer after he’d tipped her over it.

He learned that a climax didn’t improve her patience at all. She clutched at him as he rolled her fully beneath him, notching his hips between her thighs. She murmured encouragement in his ear as he positioned himself. The realization that he enjoyed that surprised him and he kissed her jaw and throat so as not to silence the flow of words.

And he learned, after he’d buried himself in her slick heat, that with her gasping, murmuring, sweating, and laughing beneath him he could, in fact, turn his brain off and just _be_.

That was the last thought he had for a very long time.

***

They dozed, then slept properly. They had shared a bed before but he had always kept his distance. Now, they had to learn to sleep tangled. It was not how he normally slept with lovers. Tonight, however, he felt the need to feel her close to him, to breath with her. It kept the dreams away.

When he woke thin grey sunshine was trickling through his window. Watson’s head was pillowed on his shoulder, her arm draped across his stomach. He stroked his hand down her hair, her side, finding her scar with his fingertips. He traced it idly, alternately staring at the ceiling and watching her sleep.

“You’re not going to be able to erase it,” she muttered into his skin. “No matter how much you rub it.”

He forced his hand to still. “It was not my intent. Though it seems a natural reaction to a failure.”

She squeezed him lightly. “Don’t call my awesome scar a failure. Scars are good. Scars mean you survived.”

“I’d prefer the survival without the wounds, myself.”

She shifted, lifting her head to look at him. “I’ll risk the scars.”

He studied her face. “No regrets, then? No wishes you’d taken that six week holiday?”

She smiled and stretched up to kiss him lightly. “No regrets.” He cupped the back of her head and kept the kiss going a moment. When he released her she sat up. “I’m going to shower. Then I’ll make- We should go get breakfast.”

Ah, yes. The kitchen was almost certainly unlivable right now. He should call and warn Ms. Hudson. Perhaps take a round with the scrub brush himself. Worst case the room had been in need of a new floor. He nodded. “Go. Already I hear the siren call of the waffle house.”


	6. Chapter 6

It occurred to Joan while she showered that she felt _young_. The night before she’d been held at gun point, stabbed a man with an icepick, but this morning she felt like a teenager after an awesome first date. Like birds should be singing on the window sill and she should be humming a merry tune as she showered. 

She felt good, despite the sore muscles and tender patches of beard burn. (If last night was going to become a habit he was going to need to learn how to _actually_ shave and not just wave the razor near his jaw.) She dressed in her most comfortable jeans and a thin tank under a heavier long sleeve. Early March tended to be grey and wet, she even debated another layer before deciding an outer jacket would be sufficient. 

She was humming as she went downstairs. She detoured through the office to look for her keys and Sherlock surprised her by wrapping his arms around her waist from behind. “Humming and bouncing on your feet. I should have ravished you ages ago.”

She snorted inelegantly and leaned into him. “Ravished, huh? Is that what they call it in England?”

“Among other, more colorful euphemisms.” He kissed her shoulder with a smack and released her, backing away through the lock room. “I will admit, I found it quite rejuvenating myself. Were it not for our current Moriarty woes I’d be tempted to dive into some of my cold cases.”

She found her keys and followed him into the other room. “I have to admit, I expected you to be more. . . angsty about this.”

He gave her one of his rare grins. “Did you? Have I given you reason to believe I am one for bouts of melancholy?” She tilted her head and gave him a look. He waved a hand and turned to the chess set that sat near the front windows. “You fret too much, Watson.” He adjusted one of his bishops. “It’s a beautiful morning. We should embrace-”

The sound of breaking glass drown out whatever else he would have said. Blood exploded from his left shoulder and he dropped to his knees, before rolling to the floor.

“Sherlock!” She ran to him, stumbling to the ground when she got close and tugging him out of sight of the widows. His eyes were open and glassy. She ripped the t-shirt he was wearing away from his shoulder - the same god damned shoulder as last time - and inspected the wound. Wounds, actually, it had been a through and through. She was dimly aware she was talking to him, “It’s okay, Sherlock. Honey, it’ll be okay, I promise. Stay with me Sherlock.”

Things happened in a haze after that. The guards that had been on their door exploded into the room and helped her with the blood. One called for an ambulance - a bus, in cop talk. The ride to the hospital blended into the rush through the ER. Eventually they took him through doors she was no longer welcome through and she found herself sitting numbly in a waiting room.

Gregson came and updated her on the search for the sniper. Nothing, of course. Still no sign of Moriarty, either. He refrained from lecturing her about protection, at least. Marcus arrived with a change of clothes for her, which was the first time she realized her jeans and shirts were soaked with Sherlock’s blood. The realization lead to a sobbing fit in the bathroom while she changed into the leggings and tunic he’d brought. He sat with her in the waiting room, silent and steady, until the doctor came back to update. 

The bullet had missed major arteries, simply shredding muscle and chipping bone. With the scar tissue already there it would be a longer recovery then in the summer but he should be fine in the end. More PT. She spoke to the doctor quietly about Sherlock’s addiction and it was marked on his chart to only use non-narcotic pain killers.

She was in his room, in a hard-backed plastic chair, watching him sleep. Her phone buzzed in her pocket and she pulled it out to find a text message from “?”

_Neither of us wanted this. There will not be a third warning. Do come have a chat._

Joan stared at the screen, thinking of the little tableau in the kitchen the night before. God, it felt like weeks.

_“That doesn’t sound like something I’d do.”_

It was an awful idea. Sherlock would yell at her just for thinking of it. The fact that she was considering it meant she wasn’t thinking clearly. She should _not_ be thinking it.

For the first time in her life Joan felt rage. Hot, sticky, _roiling_ rage. She sat quietly in her uncomfortable chair, watching Sherlock sleep, and understood exactly what he had felt when he’d gone after Moran.

_”Hell, you put me in a room with The Bitch and a scalpel I don’t think my hand would shake.”_

Sherlock would never forgive her. He wouldn’t. Of course, if she died, she wouldn’t be here to get yelled at. 

_“Too angry to be afraid.”_

The last time she’d blundered forward into a dangerous situation she’d almost died. She’d promised herself, silently, privately, to never do it again. To never leave Sherlock alone, especially now that they were so entangled. Losing Irene had brought him to the bottom. She feared - again, silently and privately - that her death would bring him to new lows. She liked to believe that knowing how disappointed she would be would keep him from using, but she couldn’t trust that. She couldn’t go.

_There will not be a third warning._

Moriarty had threatened her. Had shot Sherlock. What would be next? Not killing her. Certainly not killing Sherlock. Oren? Ms. Hudson? Ken and Hope’s kids? How would she live with herself if someone died in her place? And where would it end, with Sherlock out of commission and her with no where to start?

She looked down at her hands, her phone in her right, the left limp in her lap. She expected to see her fingers twitching, that little reminder of her own mortality.

Her hand was still as the grave.

There was no reason for that to decide it for her. It was crazy to risk her life based on the nerves in her hand. Still, she was answering the text before she could change her mind.

_When and where?_

The reply was immediate. _Irene’s house. As soon as you’re able. I’ll wait till dawn._

Joan popped the sim card out of the phone and tucked it in her pocket, leaving the shell on the table by Sherlock’s bed. She rummaged a moment, found a pen and a notepad with the hospital’s logo. She dithered a moment on what to write, everything seemed too much or not enough. Finally she scribbled the only thing that seemed to make sense and left it on the table with her phone. She bent and kissed his forehead and slipped from the room.

 

***

It was almost midnight when Joan reached the sprawling mansion she and Sherlock had found Irene in almost a year ago. She’d stopped at home to grab a sweater and coat before hot wiring a car to drive out. She’d left that ditched a few streets away and walked the rest of the way. Her cardigan hung unevenly, a weight in one pocket. She hoped her leather coat covered it.

Most departments in the hospital locked up their equipment. The morgue, however, saw no such need. The scalpel in her pocked banged her leg every few steps but so far she’d managed not to stab herself. She was pretty sure that if Moriarty was close enough to use it on things were probably well beyond her control, but it made her feel better to be armed.

The house was dark as she trudged up the walk and let herself in the front door. It felt colder in the house then outside but she could see a faint glow in the back. She followed it to the art studio and found it lit by dozens of candles and lanterns. Moriarty was lounging in a wing chair, contemplating a painting Joan couldn’t clearly see.

Moriarty looked up when she entered and smiled, looking faintly surprised. “Ms. Watson. Always a pleasure.”

“Wish I could say the same.” Joan spread her hands. “I’m here. What did you want?”

She arched a brow. “As I said, just to talk. I apologize for the lighting and temperature. No time to get the utilities up and running while on the lam.”

Joan had a feeling that was supposed to be funny. She tilted her head and waited for the other woman to continue. The blonde waved an elegant hand at the chair facing her. “Please, sit.”

“I’m comfortable standing. Thanks.”

Moriarty sighed. “I didn’t fully. . . appreciate your talents the first time we spoke. I’m told you’re the one who took down Roger. If I thought there was any chance of it I’d try to coax you over to my side of the game. I do love formidable women. We’re so surprising to the so-called stronger sex.”

“I’m an enigma wrapped in a mystery,” Joan conceded.

The smiled Moriarty gave actually looked genuine. “Pity you’re so devoted to Sherlock.” She leaned closer to speak in a conspiratorial whisper. “Is he everything in bed that I remember?”

Again with the fishing for sex life information. She was starting to think the blonde was jealous. “If I’d known this was a slumber party I’d have worn pigtails.”

Moriarty tilted her head and the brow went up again. “I’m not trying to be juvenile. I simply suspect we’re in a very exclusive club. Women Sherlock Holmes has bedded that he actually cares for.”

Joan studied her and was surprised to realize she was being sincere. And correct. She was fairly certain the only women Sherlock had both seen naked and cared about were standing in this room playing verbal chess. Moriarty liked games and the one she was playing now was pretty clear. Pretend to have a chat like normal people until something caused that to change. Joan wasn’t sure what the catalyst would be, but she was pretty confident she could hold her own up until then. She played chess with Sherlock Holmes. Even beat him, on occasion. She could dance with Moriarty a little.

She glanced down at the chair she’d been offered. She saw nothing shiny or sharp that could poke or stab her. She crouched and studied the cushion, underside and legs, finding no pressure plates or explosives. As satisfied as she could be that it was safe she stepped in front of it and sat. “I have no complaints in the bedroom,” she said when she didn’t hear anything click or start ticking. “But our physical relationship is newer then you probably think it is.”

She’d surprised the criminal mastermind, she could tell. Moriarty hid it in a smile and turning to pour herself some wine. “That doesn’t sound like him. We’d barely been acquainted five minutes before the overtures began.”

“Well,” Joan said, aiming at self depreciation. “I’m not you.”

“Mmm. And he’s not the Sherlock he once was.” She sipped her wine. “I’d offer you a glass, but I’m quite certain you wouldn’t take it.” Joan inclined her head in agreement and Moriarty took another sip. “I’m curious. Why do you think I wanted to speak to you?”

Joan gripped the arms of the chair and carefully considered the woman across from her. She settled into herself, conscious of the weight in her cardigan and the anger still seething in her chest. “I think you’re lonely,” she said finally, noting Moriarty’s little start of surprise. "You spent most of your life being light years smarter then anyone else you knew. You learned how to manipulate and play with people. You reveled in how clever you were. And then you met Sherlock. Your work of art. Who saw things just the way you did. And _then_ there was me. And you were angry, because you had to face the fact you weren’t so unique anymore. It wasn’t just you. It wasn’t even you and Sherlock. It was you and Sherlock and me. Who knows how many more there are? You could kill me. You could even work up the guts to kill Sherlock. But there’s no guarantee someone else won’t pop up to start foiling your plans again. So you did your very best to get Sherlock to your side. To help you. Someone might take one of you down but not both. But you underestimated me. And him. And now you’re jealous. Because he chose me. I get the happily ever after in snarky genius deduction and you get a life in prison.” Joan held up a finger. “Lonely.” Another finger. “Angry.” Third finger. “Jealous.” She folded her hands in her lap. “How did I do?”

Moriarty was quivering, staring her down with unmasked hatred. She took a long, slow breath through her nose and let it out again. “Remarkable. I’m starting to think I should have tried switching you all those months ago.”

“Sorry. You’re not my type.”

The blonde woman tilted her head and Joan was suddenly reminded of a cat and an unsuspecting mouse. “No, I suppose not. You seem to like them broken. In need of fixing. I don’t know if you even want to be loved so much as you require them to _need_ you. The respectable DA didn’t last. But the fragile, floundering addict? You stuck with him through thick and thin. The angel on his shoulder.” She sipped her wine. “Tell me, does it ever concern you what will happen when he no longer needs you? When he has his own strength to keep from drugs and doesn’t require you to lean on? Will you move on to yet another career? Perhaps yoga instructor? Or bodyguard.”

Joan was clutching the arms of her chair and forced herself to relax. Of course she’d thought of it. What will I do when and if this ends was hardly a rare worry in a new relationship. She hadn’t come up with an answer yet, but hell, she might not survive the night. Long term plans could probably be put off a little longer. She shook her head slowly. “Look, I could play ‘pick the emotional scabs’ all night but I’m guessing you had a bigger purpose in mind. Let’s cut to the chase.”

“As you wish. I do have a proposition for you. I considered bringing it to Sherlock, but I hoped you might be more inclined to practicality and less to ideology.”

“Possibly,” Joan allowed.

“I’ve escaped. I have plans to leave the country. I will rest a bit. Perhaps travel. But I will eventually take up my old ways. I propose a simple agreement. I’ll stay out of your business and you stay out of mine. I’ll limit my operation to Europe and possibly Asia and leave this quaint little continent to you two. I won’t meddle. I won’t contact either of you. It will be as if I died.”

For a heart stopping, breath taking second Joan considered it. Just letting her go. Stand up, shake hands and go their separate ways. Never tell Sherlock, because Moriarty was right, he would never let it go. She was always going to be The Woman to him. His nemesis. 

She couldn’t go her whole life with this secret. She couldn’t look him in the eye, help him with cases, kiss him, touch him. She wanted, desperately, to end this without bloodshed. But she wanted to be able to live with herself more.

“I can’t,” she said, allowing regret to touch her voice. “He’d never agree. Even if I lied he’d find out eventually. Our paths would cross, somehow. You know that as well as I do. The world is too small.”

Moriarty watched her and put her wine glass down. “Yes,” she said softly and Joan heard the same hint of regret in her tone. “You’re right. And I knew that would be your answer. But still. . . I felt I had to try.”

“I appreciate it,” Joan said, surprised at the truth. She was in a very small club with this woman, after all. Perhaps, twisted as it was, she did feel a kinship to her. In another life, another world, maybe they would have been friends. Having drinks and lunch and giggling about Sherlock behind his back. It would have been nice. “We’re at a bit of an impasse, then,” she said, watching the blonde carefully.

“Oh. I wouldn’t say that.” Moriarty reached for something on the table. Joan tensed, heart in her throat. She caught only the slightest glimpse of dull metal. Without conscious thought she reached in her pocket and leapt forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I'm gonna get yelling for this.
> 
> I could totally write Joan and Moriarty sniping at each other all freaking day.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock became aware of himself before he had the strength to open his eyes. He was aware his chest and back hurt. That there was an IV poking the back of his hand. His throat was sore. And he had the dazed sluggish feel that vaguely reminded him of coming up from a long heroin bender. He was usually less sore after one of those, though.

All right. What did he recall? The standoff in the kitchen. Watson. Waking up. And then the sound of glass breaking and a searing pain in his back. Watson leaning over him, pale and frightened with blood on her hands.

Watson.

He forced his eyes open, panic for her safety giving him the strength. He found her almost immediately, curled in a hospital chair next to his bed. Her head was propped on her hand, elbow braced on the arm of the chair. Her legs were tucked up with her. He saw a bright white bandage sticking out from the leg of her slacks. Which he noted were torn and smudged. There was the faint scent of soot in the air.

Someone had been busy while he was sleeping.

“Watson,” he rasped, shifting in bed.

Her eyes opened slowly and she lifted her head, focusing on him. “You’re awake,” she said softly, mouth curving into a smile.

“So I am. What happened?”

“There was a sniper. You were shot in the shoulder, through-and-through. The surgery-”

He waved his good hand. “Yes, yes. Stitches, physical therapy, manly new scars. I can surmise the basics. What happened to you while I was out?”

She hesitated. For a moment he thought she was going to demure and he’d have to wring it from her word by word. Instead, she looked off in a middle distance. “The last few hours have been quite vexing,” she said softly. “I’m not certain I’ve done the right thing. I try not to be conflicted about the decisions I make. To rely on the beauty of deductive reasoning. But. . . not this.”

He recognized the words as an echo of the ones he had spoken after his capture of Moran. He had been so lost that evening, utterly adrift. Until her cool fingers on his wrist had anchored him. If whatever had occurred in his absence had brought that night to mind. . . “Watson,” he said again, voice still rough from the surgical intubation though he strove for gentle understanding. “What happened?”

She glanced at the table next to her and reached to pick up her phone. She stood and walked to him, limping a little on her bandaged leg. She sat carefully on the edge of his bed and tilted her phone so he could read the messages sent to her.

_I’ll wait ‘til dawn._

He looked at her face. “You didn’t.”

She closed her eyes. “I didn’t know what else to do. I was afraid she’d kill someone. I brought a scalpel.”

He found the bed controls and cautiously tilted it up so he could sit. She watched him, a bit of the old Dr. Watson in her eyes as she assessed him. He waited until he was upright and not dizzy before speaking. “What did she do?”

Watson shook her head, looking back at her hands. “We just talked. It was almost normal, honestly. She wanted me to let her get away.”

“Did you?”

“No. I don’t think- Not intentionally.” She shook her head sharply, like she was gathering her thoughts. “We fought. She had a gun but I surprised her. There were a lot of lanterns and candles; she claimed the power was off. The fire started quickly. I tried to keep hold of her but she’s stronger then she looks. Then part of the floor gave way and we both got caught in the flames. Burned my leg. By the time I was on stable ground and no longer on fire I couldn’t see her anymore. I left.” She rubbed her eyes. “I looked for her. Waited outside. I didn’t see any sign of her. When I heard sirens I made my escape. Stopped at the brownstone for a bandage and came here so you wouldn’t be alone when you woke up.”

Sherlock was silent, processing what she’d said, picturing it in his head. Watson and Moriarty faced off in a battle of wits. Ending in a draw. It was probably very, very wrong to wish he’d been able to watch.

“Are you angry?” Watson said softly, still looking down at her hands. Her left was twitching, ever so slightly.

He felt an odd pang at that. She’s stared down the most dangerous criminal in the world and was only afraid he’d be upset with her. He lifted a hesitant hand and ran it down her arm. “I’m not angry. I’d have done the same thing were it you in the hospital bed. I’m not thrilled at the outcome. But I respect your intent.”

She nodded, still looking dejected. He used his hand on her arm to slowly draw her closer and settle her against his chest gingerly. “I’m glad you’re safe,” he said softly.

“I’m glad you’re awake,” she replied, just as soft.

He held her there against his chest, injured arm loose around her waist the other stroking her hair gently. Moriarty was almost certainly on the run again, now with the possibility of her death slowing down the search. She may have honestly hoped to talk Watson into an arrangement, but Sherlock doubted that had been her only plan. The fire had been too convenient. A way to escape and possibly rid herself of a nuisance as well. He had no doubt Watson knew or suspected the same things, hence her dark mood and uncertainty. For all his cleverness he had no idea how to comfort her. He had a powerful urge to make everything all right and he could think of no way to do so. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I promised I wouldn’t let you get hurt.”

“Sherlock it wasn’t your fault.”

“I don’t mean tonight. I mean all of this. You went to meet an international criminal armed with a blade intending to kill her. I don’t think the Joan Watson I met a year and a half ago would have been willing to do that. Being with me, doing what we do, it’s changed you. Irrevocably. I can’t ever apologize for that properly.”

She sat up slowly, pushing her hair back from her face. “You wish I’d taken that six week vacation, don’t you?”

He knew the correct answer was to assure her that no, he wouldn’t change a thing. He wondered why his painful confessions always happened in hospital beds. “Sometimes. Yes.”

She studied him a moment, face crumpled, creased with the stress of her day. “It probably would have been the safer path,” she conceded finally. “But I don’t regret it. I told you, I’ll risk the scars. I’ve changed, yes. So have you. I did what I did because you mean that much to me. I’d do it again. So would you. That’s who we are now.”

He stroked her hair away from her face, wishing he could soothe her more. “I would do all manner of unsavory things for you.”

She laughed a little and leaned forward to rest her forehead on his. “Ditto.”

 

***

Two weeks later spring was making a valiant effort to warm the city. The equinox had come and gone, the days growing longer. Sherlock enjoyed this time of year. There was something to be said for an entire season devoted to life and renewal.

He was on the roof, watching his bees warm themselves in the sunshine. Watson and Ms. Hudson had carried, dragged and shoved two lounge chairs up the roof during his convalescence. He’d humphed at the idea initially, but laying in the late afternoon sun he could see the sense to it. Watson was in the other, in a camisole and skirt, bare legs and arms almost glowing in the dimming light. She was reading through a stack of books on container gardening, occasionally sipping a sweating glass of iced tea.

Sherlock was finally out of his sling due to his diligence in physical therapy exercises. It was amazing what he would do to keep Watson from nagging. The shoulder still ached at the end of the day but he had refused to take any more of the pain killers she had insisted on. Much like her and her scars he had decided pain meant he had survived.

He rolled his head to look at her. “If you start a garden up here I may be convinced to open my hives.”

Without looking up she reached into her book stack and held one up to show him the title. “ _Natural Beekeeping_ ,” he read out loud. “ _Organic Approaches to Modern Apiculture_. Why Watson, have you been reading my mind?”

“Telepathy wasn’t in my assigned reading,” she said blandly, but she gave him a glance and a smirk as she turned her page.

He felt himself smiling, in a remarkably good mood for a man who’d recently been shot. “I’ve been thinking,” he said.

“That’s what that vague sense of foreboding is,” she murmured, still reading.

“I think we should go on vacation.”

That startled her into looking up at him. “You what?”

“I think we should take a holiday. Now that the weather is improving. Not far. Perhaps the shore. The Hamptons? Adirondack Mountains?”

“You’re serious.”

“I think we’ve earned time away, no?”

She tilted her head, considering. “This isn’t going to be like that old Angela Lansbury show where she’d go away to vacation in some quaint New England town and then someone would get killed and she’d have to solve the murder.”

“Good Lord, I hope so. That would be a fantastic trip.”

She laughed and shook her head indulgently. He imagined he’d see and hear that particular combination often in the coming months and years. She put her book down, slipped something out of the pile and came over to perch on the edge of his lounge. “I have something I want to show you.” He arched a brow in response and she placed a folder on his lap. He recognized it immediately.

“Watson, this is-”

“My file, yes. I didn’t send it back with the others. I did some thinking and I thought. . . I’d like you to look at it. It’s nothing ground breaking. Standard surgery gone awry. I could probably quote it verbatim. But I thought you’d like the official version.” She paused, looking out at the view. “It’s a big part of my life. It’s why I met you. You should know.”

He moved the folder to the little glass table that held his tea glass. Then he sat up slowly and slid an arm around her. He was working on touching her more. Some changes could be good ones. “Thank you.”

She smiled and kissed him lightly. He deepened it, leaning back and using his arm around her to pull her with him, making her squeak a little. She lifted her head to look at him, sprawled across his chest. He gave her a wicked smile. “If I didn’t live by a strict code of honor I might take advantage of this situation. Erotically, as it were.” He put lie to the words by sliding a hand up her leg, under her skirt.

She blushed. “Sherlock! We’re outside.”

“We’re on a roof,” he said, cupping her bum. “In the afternoon. On a Thursday. If anyone is watching they’re home sick from work, using a telescope and deserve a good show.” He stroked his thumb under the edge of her panties, teasing the place where her leg met her body. 

She groaned in her throat and it was the sexiest sound he’d ever heard. He buried his other hand in her hair and tugged her down for a kiss. She didn’t even pretend to resist. When she was throughly distracted with his mouth he let his hand trail down her throat to cup her breast. He stroked her there while his thumb found the center of her pleasure and circled, making her shudder against him.

They’d been relatively chaste since the shooting and the hospital. With the combination of drugs and pain he hadn’t been the best company. But now the sun was shining, it was spring and he had the strongest urge to celebrate life.

He released her long enough to tug his shirt off, then hers. She still seemed a little reluctant to be undressed outside in the sun but he was able to distract her with his mouth on one breast, teeth tugging. She held his head a moment, fingers trailing through his hair. Then he felt her fumble with his fly, then her own underwear. 

He leaned back to watch her ride him, skin pale and glowing in the evening sun. The sky pinked as he watched, turning the light thin and dreamy. Perhaps he was dreaming all of this. Her. It did feel like a dream sometimes, finding a woman who understood and accepted him. Who would fight his battles with him. Smart and clever enough to keep him interested. Who, for some unfathomable reason, seemed fond of him. Who made him want to be a better version of himself.

There was a word for all of that, a declaration he should make to her, but he wasn’t quite ready to think it yet, let alone say it. Certainly not now, with her half naked and shaking above him and the blood roaring in his ears.

When they were both sated she sank onto his chest, limp and warm. He stroked her hair, found his t-shirt and dragged it over her back like it was a blanket.

Watson nuzzled at his good shoulder, tracing a feather light finger over his new scar. “We are not making a habit of this.”

“Really? You seemed to enjoy it at least as well as I.”

“I meant outside. On the roof. Not a habit.”

“Hmm.” He rubbed her back, tracing the line of her spine. “There are a great many other places I can ravish you in the house. We should try them all out before choosing favorites.”

He felt more then heard her laugh. “Whatever you say, honey.” Her voice was indulgent again. Affectionate. The words warmed him to his core and he tightened his arms around her, still not ready to express the emotion he suddenly knew to be true. He thought of the note he found in the hospital, forgotten on his beside table until it was time for him to be discharged. A simple sentence in Watson’s firm, clear hand written when she went to what could have been her death. _The difference in me, empirically speaking, is you._

Not all changes were bad.

She shivered, the growing shadows cooling the air. “Cold, love?” he murmured, hearing similar affection in his own tone. She nodded once and he tugged his shirt over her head to keep her warm and shifted them so she was tucked next to him on the lounge. She sighed, sounding content and he played with her hair, nervous hands soothed by the activity. 

They watched the sun set in silence while the bees buzzed and the city came to life around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's the end of the Complicated Series. For now. :) Life is a little too crazy to commit to another story right now, plus I have some ideas for other fandoms running through my head. I'm certainly not done with Joan and Sherlock, but I'll likely be taking a break.
> 
> Thank you everyone for the comments and kudos. You've all kept me going through some rough spots with these stories. I loved writing them and am so glad you liked reading them.


End file.
